A Ship Called Persistence
by Guy S. Holliday
Summary: At the moment, this is just half of the prologue to my eventual novelization of BG1:TotSC. The main character has not been revealed yet, but the aim of the prologue is to set up events that serve as the story's launching point. Suggestions are welcome!


PROLOGUE: Intrigue

* * *

><p>Far above the forest's sprawling canopy, a red-throated hawk spied two lone figures picking their way along a seldom-used path. The hawk's keen eyes were drawn to the larger figure out in front of its smaller, purple-robed companion. The larger person had a pet rodent, the hawk could see plainly, but the travelers were moving at such a speed as to make an aerial assault impossible before they moved out of the clearing and back into the thick of the wood. Flicking her feathers, the hawk flew east to the foothills of the Sunset Mountains where she would find easier pickings. She thought little more about the two travelers, to say nothing of their purposeful stride.<p>

It would still be at least two days before the travelers breached the edge of the Reaching Woods and made their way to Scornubel. The Caravan City lay just on the banks of the River Chionthar, where the waterway met the bustling Trade Way road that served as a main artery for travel in the easterly regions of the Sword Coast. Every year thousands of merchants made their way to Scornubel to hawk their wares, often laden with luxuries from far-flung locales like Thayvian silks, Berduskan wine, and exotic incense from the farthest reaches of Faerûn called the Unapproachable East. But the hustle and bustle of Scornubel held little more than passing interest for the two in the deepening dark of the Reaching Woods. Their sights were set firmly some three hundred miles to the south and east: to the cold, stone austerity of the fortress-library of Candlekeep.

The woman in purple robes gasped and called to her companion, brushing a spider web out of her hair, "Minsc, hold a moment! Hold, friend. Magic does not rest well in a tired mind. I must sleep."

Her hulking bodyguard turned about immediately and whispered something, seemingly to himself, in the direction of his shoulder. Without ceremony, Minsc popped the straps of his rucksack and set about making camp for the night. His great slabs of muscle twitched like a draft horse's flanks after running, and the steam off his hide mingled with the cooling air of the forest.

"Yes, Lady Dynaheir, Boo also thinks it is time for a nap. Minsc is lucky to have such wise friends," said Minsc, as he unpacked the shabby tarpaulin that would serve him as a roof.

Dynaheir considered her attendant, taking some small pleasure in his willingness to follow orders. More specifically, _her_ orders. She watched the way his arms moved purposefully, with none of the clumsiness one might associate with a man of such magnitude. She worried at the slowly diminishing bruise marring Minsc's clean-shaven head. Her bodyguard would never have been found guilty of being too bright, certainly, but he had become more and more… "spontaneous" since he'd taken an ogre's club full-force on his forehead. He was talking to himself more often than usual, to boot.

Sometimes, before Minsc's injury five nights previous, Dynaheir wondered what it might be like to be wrapped up tightly in his thickset arms, especially on colder evenings than this, but she brushed the thought away as easily as the spider web. Just as she always did. Minsc was a good man, and perhaps a capable lover, but he was not much for deep conversation. Besides, she was Hathran – a member of her far-away nation's matriarchal spellcasting elite – and she could have any Rashemi warrior she desired. If that was what she desired.

But right now she desired sleep.

Dynaheir listened half-heartedly as Minsc prattled on about something he had seen that day in the forest, sang a rhyme about his favorite kinds of trees, or discussed (presumably with his rodent) which types of local nuts were the most savory. Occasionally she would nod or murmur assent, but her attention was wholly fixed on the map in front of her. She traced a dark, slender finger through the thousands of miles of hillock and brushwood, through the innumerable townships and farmsteads, through the frothing inland seas and mighty snow-capped mountain ranges that had so defined their long journey. She was so close; she fancied she could almost smell the Sea of Swords. She had never felt more distant from Rashemen: indeed, there were few places farther away from her easterly home than Candlekeep.

She rolled up the map, placing it neatly among the others in her pack, and drifted to sleep. It is sometimes said that wizards suffer from a lack of dreams, and the Hathran was no exception.

* * *

><p>Montaron crept through the boughs of a different kind of forest, stalking prey. He could see his mark from the rooftop, and his new accomplice in the street was herding their victim perfectly into Montaron's trap. The halfling perched on the edge of the edifice, his eyes carefully following the hooded figure below. How many times had Montaron gotten distracted while eyeing a mark only to lose him in the crowd? Not this time. The thief wasn't just out cutting purses tonight. Tonight, he would be cutting throats.<p>

Down at street level, the halfling's associate had perhaps the riskier task. Xzar had to chase their mark through the winding labyrinth of Zhentil Keep's most wretched slum – and there were many wretched slums in that city – all the while guiding their quarry toward a place where Montaron could make a clean kill. Xzar checked the crumbled rooftops every city block or so to make sure his ally was keeping up on his short, stubby legs.

The halfling leapt nimbly across the roof. In this part of Zhentil Keep, the squatflats (so the locals called the squalid structures in this part of town) were built so close together that Montaron only rarely needed to jump more than three or four feet to reach the next building. His prey was a better runner than she looked. It wasn't the first time the little thief had underestimated a mark. Luckily, Montaron's marks almost always underestimated him. The halfling sucked in deep lungfuls of air, spat, and pressed on running, hoping that this was again the case.

Xzar rustled through his dark green robes while he ran, pulling out a small leathery spike that was thin like paper. He began a horrible incantation (which was not easy to do while sprinting) and the stirge proboscis crumbled to dust in his hand. Flicking his dusty fingers in the direction of his quarry, Xzar spat out the final foul words of the spell. There was a faint rippling in the air, and the necromancer shivered with joy as he watched the robed woman spasm in agony. The second effect of the spell was to drain a small portion of her life-force and spirit it away to the caster. The mage licked his lips as he felt his enemy's energy drain, giving him the strength to press on.

Montaron, seeing that Xzar's misdirection had worked, almost smiled. Noticing this, his lips twitched back into his trademark frown. The woman had turned into a narrow alley just as Xzar had hoped she would. The draining spell succeeded. The halfling deftly sprung down the over the banister that followed a rickety staircase up to the roof, and pounced just behind his prey. The hooded woman – Montaron could now clearly see her feminine shape – opened her mouth in silent horror as she saw that she'd run into a dead end. The alley between the two squatflats pinched like a triangle, leaving the smallest sliver between death and escape. The light that just barely filtered through taunted her. She was going to die here.

"I'll thank ye ta stop yer runnin' lass. This be the end o' the line," Montaron croaked.

She whirled her head in disbelief, searching for an exit, no matter how long the odds. Grabbing a laundry line, she tried to climb with her feet braced against the side wall, but the thin cord snapped under even her slight weight.

"Yer book's been written. This is where yer story ends. I canna make it more clear'n that," he explained, relishing in her panic.

"I've got money. Take it, it's yours," she pleaded, tossing her coin purse to the cobblestones between them. She was out of breath.

"I were plannin' on it," the halfling crowed, picking up the little bag. "Tanks fer makin' this dark work a wee sight easier." He drew a sharp little knife that shined like blood and held it readied at his side in a defensive stance.

"You don't have to do this. I'll tell you what you want to know," she said, guessing at his purpose. "I'll tell you and then you can let me go." By now, she had backed herself into the corner. She could feel a slight breeze coming through the crack in the wall, mocking her.

Just then, Xzar made his entrance, striding through the gloom of the alley, towering over both the halfling and their mutual prey. He swept like a shadow through the little slice of Hell they had prepared for her. He had a nervous tic – likely thanks to a lifetime of consorting with the dead – and he tried to mask it as he prepared his next spell.

The woman looked upon the mage in terror. "Y-your face! You bear the mark of shame. Defiler!" she cried, but to no avail.

Xzar flipped an amulet out of his robes. A distinctive symbol in the shape of a black dragon was etched on the necklace. The necromancer replied, "My… colorful past has been forgiven by our current employer. Scream if you like. Your terror tastes to me like honey." He licked his lips for effect and drew a piece of blackened bone shaped like a segmented worm from one of his robe's many folds. Moving it in a deliberate pattern, he watched with delight as it slowly wriggled to life.

"The worm?" Montaron inquired. "Canna we jus' bleed her slow?"

The woman could tell the writhing maggot in the wizard's hands made even his stumpy friend uncomfortable. Suddenly, the thief was behind her, between the crack in the wall and her backside. In half a moment, her hands were bound at the wrists.

Xzar took the last step toward the hooded woman and shook the worm lightly in her face. "Where shall I put this?" he asked. "The ear or the nose? Or the mouth? No… then you couldn't tell your secret. Maybe… maybe in your eye…" Xzar chuckled as the worm coiled and uncoiled around his pale fingers.

"N-no! No, I'll do anything! I am just a courier! It's not what you think…" she begged.

"My little friend can make a new hole in your belly if you like," Xzar said, "or I can have Monty gag you and make the choice myself." The reality of the situation finally dawned on her. She slumped to the cold street on her knees. Her head was now level with the halfling.

"Try the eye, mage," Montaron suggested. "We shouldn't be 'ere too long." He tightened the leather strings on his cowl and resumed his brutal grip on her shoulders. He was much stronger than he looked.

"Let the worm decide," Xzar said with glee. The wizard pulled back her hood and delicately placed the worm on the top of her head. It was cold as death and it reeked of carrion flesh. She could feel its segments squirm as it tickled her ear. The woman nearly vomited. Suddenly, the gruesome thing plunged deep inside her head and downward through the ear. Montaron had to look away from the bulge that appeared along her jawline.

"This will take some time to kill you. Already you feel your fingers and toes going cold. Give us what we want and I will end your life. Otherwise… you will linger. The end is especially unpleasant," Xzar gloated. "The worm will siphon your spirit. Your god will not claim you in the afterlife. Tell me. Tell us. Now."

His face twitched, but he was smiling.


End file.
